IV.
Passing through the broad court-yard's postern, Pierre
closed it after him, and then turned and leaned upon it, his
eyes fixed upon the great central chimney of the mansion,
from which a light blue smoke was wreathing gently into the
morning air.
“The hearth-stone from which thou risest, never more, I inly
feel, will these feet press. Oh God, what callest thou that which
has thus made Pierre a vagabond?”
He walked slowly away, and passing the windows of Lucy,
looked up, and saw the white curtains closely drawn, the
white-cottage profoundly still, and a white saddle-horse tied before
the gate.
“I would enter, but again would her abhorrent wails repel;
what more can I now say or do to her? I can not explain.
She knows all I purposed to disclose. Ay, but thou didst
cruelly burst upon her with it; thy impetuousness, thy instantaneousness
hath killed her, Pierre!—Nay, nay, nay!—Cruel
tidings who can gently break? If to stab be inevitable; then
instant be the dagger! Those curtains are close drawn upon
her; so let me upon her sweet image draw the curtains of my
soul. Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, thou angel!—wake no more
to Pierre, nor to thyself, my Lucy!”
Passing on now hurriedly and blindly, he jostled against
some oppositely-going wayfarer. The man paused amazed;
and looking up, Pierre recognized a domestic of the Mansion.
That instantaneousness which now impelled him in all his
actions, again seized the ascendency in him. Ignoring the dismayed
expression of the man at thus encountering his young
master, Pierre commanded him to follow him. Going straight
to the “Black Swan,” the little village Inn, he entered the first
vacant room, and bidding the man be seated, sought the keeper
of the house, and ordered pen and paper.
If fit opportunity offer in the hour of unusual affliction, minds
of a certain temperament find a strange, hysterical relief, in a
wild, perverse humorousness, the more alluring from its entire
unsuitableness to the occasion; although they seldom manifest
this trait toward those individuals more immediately involved
in the cause or the effect of their suffering. The cool censoriousness
of the mere philosopher would denominate such conduct
as nothing short of temporary madness; and perhaps it is,
since, in the inexorable and inhuman eye of mere undiluted reason,
all grief, whether on our own account, or that of others,
is the sheerest unreason and insanity.
The note now written was the following:
“For that Fine Old Fellow, Dates.
“Dates, my old boy, bestir thyself now. Go to my room,
Dates, and bring me down my mahogany strong-box and lockup,
the thing covered with blue chintz; strap it very carefully,
my sweet Dates, it is rather heavy, and set it just without the
postern. Then back and bring me down my writing-desk, and
set that, too, just without the postern. Then back yet again,
and bring me down the old camp-bed (see that all the parts be
there), and bind the case well with a cord. Then go to the left
corner little drawer in my wardrobe, and thou wilt find my visiting-cards.
Tack one on the chest, and the desk, and the
camp-bed case. Then get all my clothes together, and pack
them in trunks (not forgetting the two old military cloaks,
my boy), and tack cards on them also, my good Dates. Then
fly round three times indefinitely, my good Dates, and wipe a
little of the perspiration off. And then—let me see—then, my
good Dates—why what then? Why, this much. Pick up all
papers of all sorts that may be lying round my chamber, and
see them burned. And then—have old White Hoof put to
the lightest farm-wagon, and send the chest, and the desk, and
the camp-bed, and the trunks to the `Black Swan,' where I
shall call for them, when I am ready, and not before, sweet
Dates. So God bless thee, my fine, old, imperturbable Dates,
and adieu!
“Thy old young master,
Pierre.
“Nota bene—Mark well, though, Dates. Should my mother
possibly interrupt thee, say that it is my orders, and mention
what it is I send for; but on no account show this to thy mistress—D'ye
hear? Pierre again.”
Folding this scrawl into a grotesque shape, Pierre ordered
the man to take it forthwith to Dates. But the man, all perplexed,
hesitated, turning the billet over in his hand; till Pierre
loudly and violently bade him begone; but as the man was
then rapidly departing in a panic, Pierre called him back and
retracted his rude words; but as the servant now lingered
again, perhaps thinking to avail himself of this repentant mood
in Pierre, to say something in sympathy or remonstrance to
him, Pierre ordered him off with augmented violence, and
stamped for him to begone.
Apprising the equally perplexed old landlord that certain
things would in the course of that forenoon be left for him,
(Pierre,) at the Inn; and also desiring him to prepare a chamber
for himself and wife that night; some chamber with a commodious
connecting room, which might answer for a dressing-room;
and likewise still another chamber for a servant; Pierre
departed the place, leaving the old landlord staring vacantly
at him, and dumbly marveling what horrible thing had happened
to turn the brain of his fine young favorite and old
shooting comrade, Master Pierre.
Soon the short old man went out bare-headed upon the low
porch of the Inn, descended its one step, and crossed over to the
middle of the road, gazing after Pierre. And only as Pierre
turned up a distant lane, did his amazement and his solicitude
find utterance.
“I taught him—yes, old Casks;—the best shot in all the
country round is Master Pierre;—pray God he hits not now
the bull's eye in himself.—Married? married? and coming
here?—This is pesky strange!
